The Age of Rubbish
I rode my bike through the
last days
of the rubbish dump over
shallow hills
covering the waste of
decades.
After the war they filled in
the bay,
the muddy shallows and the
salt marsh,
with discarded war waste,
planes,
tanks and jeeps. Drove them
into the mud till they sank,
then drove the next tank
over the top.
They had to punch holes in
the crates
of unassembled spitfires so
they
would sink. The spoils of
war.
A sea wall was built, a hard
boundary
between the victory of land
and the flow of the river.
The age of rubbish, a public
tip
for the garbage of the
fifties.
Methane outbursts mixed with
old aviation fuel seeping
from the depths. Rats and
crows.
- Mark Roberts 2016
Mark Roberts is a Sydney poet. He edits Rochford Street Review. His latest collection, "Concrete Flamingos" has just been released.
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